Cautionary Family Tail

Golden delicious hair fanning out on tartan picnic blanket, hands gliding up creamy peach textured flanks to seize and squeeze ripe honeydews, while tongue parts layer and layer and layer of forbidden fruit in search of the nut. Finding it and sucking, sucking, sucking. A sighing of "Now, now, sow me," and the rise up with tongue along peach fuzz trunk, stretching out branches, sending oranges this way, ripe apricots and almonds the other way, scattering across blanket. Phallus parting the plump petals and caressing the nub to the music of sighs and moans. Lips and teeth feasting on shimmering melons.

Soft plum caressing the gate of paradise, pressing on the gate, thrusting through the gate. Basket of cherries under vanilla hips crushed, the sweet nectar spreading on blanket, melding with the red wine from the toppled bottle. Gates thrown wide open. Entering, entering, entering, to the cries of the plowing of the furrow to the uppermost branch of the apple tree shielding tartan picnic blanket. A bite of the apple and then another . . . and then another. Momentary thrashing about. A holding as the whole orchard stops breathing. Tension; a shudder and a jerk. A final plunge of the blade of the plow and creamy seed spreading out into the core.

"Too much? Too graphic?" Evan looked up from his reading to see the female students with stunned expressions, the other male students sniggering, Professor Whitlam with slitted eyes. Turning his face to the professor, Evan said, almost in a whine, "You told us to be expressive in our assignment . . . to use metaphor . . . and to write from what we know," he said in a low, hesitant voice.

OK, he shouldn't have thrown in that last bit—writing what he knew—he realized, from the renewed sniggering, now joined in by some of the more worldly women students. But, damn it, he did know how to fuck a woman, even how it felt to pop a cherry, and a good half of the female students in this class knew that very well.

And as far as graphic, it was nowhere as near graphic as what had inspired it. Her name had been Tanya, and there was nothing peachy about her mahogany skin. He hadn't tried a black woman before, and Tanya had been laying the signals on strong. Yes, they'd sent some of the picnic food scattering. But that had resulted from Tanya's eagerness to lay him before they'd eaten. Yes, lay him. He was no slacker, but that girl had been like a Hoover vacuum cleaner. ("Like." He'd used "like" in that thought. Professor Whitlam had told him to avoid simile, to concentrate on metaphor, in the creative writing class exercise, and he thought he'd done that well. That was deserving an A, wasn't it?)

No melons for Tanya. Well, melons, yes, but watermelons rather than honeydews. Good feasting, though. And flowing cherry juice or red wine? Forget about it. Tanya's cunt had been as busy—and reamed as big—as the Holland Tunnel, and her labia as plump petals? More like the jaws of a bulldozer, grabbing his cock and pulling him inside. Squeezing and rippling channel wall muscles, milking him dry; not letting him go until, balls aching, he'd released his cum four times. Fucking him voraciously again in the car when the rain had forced them to seek shelter.

Not that he complained.

"No, actually, that was very good, Evan," Professor Whitlam said, smiling. "Perhaps you could have found an appropriate metaphor for 'phallus,' as that pretty much gives it away to anyone not already discerning the meaning," and at this point Professor Whitlam looked directly at a slight female student, Ann Marie, sitting on the front row, bunched up into herself and still quivering and looking stunned, "but I can't think of one right off hand myself . . . 'the blade of the plow' doesn't seem to quite capture it . . . so very good overall, very good indeed."

"Now," the professor continued, turning her attention to the rest of the class, "That's all the time we have for class today. Rodney, you'll be up first in the next class, and I hope to God you haven't chosen to write on baseball again." The students chuckled as they shuffled up from their desks. Rodney looked a little chagrinned, no doubt wondering what he could do for a rewrite between now and the next class. Could he just substitute "football" for "baseball" and get away with it, he wondered.

Ann Marie edged up to Evan before she left the room, and, looking at the floor and mumbling so that he might not have heard her if his radar for such questions wasn't pinging right along. "Evan. I'd love to go on a picnic with you some day."

Skinny, shy, tits promising to be more like fired eggs than melons. Didn't matter, Evan was nineteen and highly sexed, perpetually hard and always good to go. She was a sweet-looking piece. Not quite the vision of all-American blonde he usual spiked, but working hard to achieve that. Evan had visions of cherries popping going off in his mind. If there was a virgin in this class, it would have to be Ann Marie. Those ultrathin hips of hers, though. Room for him to work? He'd make it fit; he always had.

"I'd like that, Ann Marie. But picnics take a lot of time. If you don't want to take all of that time, why don't you just meet me in the bushes behind Scott library in, say, fifteen minutes. I'd show you a good time and handle you just right. First time, right?"

Ann Marie mumbled something unintelligible to the floor and blushed; Evan took that to be a "yes." Always best to be optimistic. That was Evan's mantra—or one of them. "Get in there, get in there, get in there" was a favorite of his too.

Sure Evan was cocky and arrogant. But he had a right to be. Movie star blond looks and both lacrosse team standout and poetry editor of the school's literary journal—and with the rumor spread and verified by many that he both had a record cock and knew how to use it—all meant he was in high demand at the college. And Evan was young, virile, constantly hard, and randy. He'd fuck anything that moved. If he couldn't stand to look at it, well, that's what light switches were made for.

He was about to follow Ann Marie out of the classroom, curious himself if she wanted it so bad she'd carry through and meet him behind the library, when Professor Whitlam called him back.

"You know I have a book signing tour for

Ravenscroft Mystery

coming up in England the week after next," the professor said.

"Yes, I've heard. Does that mean we won't have class that week?"

"There will still be class, but perhaps you won't be here for it. I have a grant to take a student with me on tour for the experience that would benefit a young writer. I thought I'd take you."

From the look she gave him, Evan wondered if the experience he'd get would be covered in the grant prospectus. A little jolt of electricity went through his body. He'd hadn't done a cougar yet. "Well, that would be wonderful," He stammered. "But I don't know if I could manage it."

He, in fact, knew he couldn't swing it. He'd been on cut rations since the beginning of the summer. He'd made the mistake of going home to New York. His father was a history professor at NYU. And he had a weakness for marrying younger women with roving eyes. He'd caught Evan fucking his wife, Evan's latest stepmother, Claudia—or rather the ravenous Claudia fucking Evan—by the pool, quite unexpectedly and on the spur of the moment as far as Evan was concerned, and Evan had been packed back to Maryland and sent only the slimmest of subsistence checks ever since. Of course it was his father's fault for what he married and for letting Evan come home for a visit.

"It's a grant, Evan. All expenses paid. Why don't you come around to my house at 9:00 tonight so we can talk about it? You know where I live, don't you?"

Sure he did. He'd had the professor's place staked out since the beginning of this, his sophomore year—just as soon as he'd seen what a hot babe she was, even at her age. While he hadn't done a cougar yet, he had been making a "to do" list.

Ann Marie went rigid, and was quietly sobbing between the fingers of the hand he had clamped over her mouth, as he had her backed up to the brick wall of the back of the library building, her panties on the ground, her top lowered to meet her raised skirt at her heaving waist, a slender leg hooked on Evan's hip, and Evan's cock bulb lodged inside her cunt entrance.

Arrousingly, the tits had been more plums than fried eggs, Ann Marie clearly liked having the nipples sucked, and she wasn't backing out. She'd clenched her jaw and confirmed, "Yes, I want you. Fuck me," right before he pressed his hand over her mouth. It indeed was going to be cherry plucking time, he'd decided.

That's the way it was with most girls he knew who, in high school, were saving themselves for marriage. In college, they suddenly saw it as a rite of passage to get over the hump and be humped. Evan had no trouble accommodating them.

He too was quivering, though. He enjoyed the fuck nearly every time himself, regardless of the fuckee. It was mostly about the ejaculation. If he could get it up and get it in, he could get it off. That moment when he unloaded his wad—that was what he lived for. Of course, doing a virgin was special. He didn't notch his belt for them all, but he did it for every virgin. Sensing the pop of the cherry came in a quick second to ejaculation in "highs" for Evan.

He held for a second, just his bulb lodged inside her bud of an entrance, both of them panting, waiting for her to adjust this far for him and stop quivering so. When he felt that she had and was beginning to relax, he did a controlled thrust, enough to feel and imagine he heard the pop of the cherry. She thrashed around within the confines of his embrace and bit one of his fingers, a scream being stifled. He held just beyond the burst gate for only the length of her gasp before he began pressing up, at first gently, and then assertively, entering her more deeply. Pulled back. Thrust up again, feeling, finally, her walls roll back in advance of the cock like the thundering door to a bank vault.

By the time he had established a rhythm, Ann Marie had settled down, having unbuttoned his shirt, latched her mouth onto a nipple on his hard, bronzed chest, and begun to suckle. Her eyes went wide when she felt him jerk and let out a heavy breath. But he was sheathed and it had held, so all was right with the world.

She shyly quizzed him on when the next time would be, but he was noncommittal, having no intention of fucking her again.

Professor Evangeline Whitlam—Lena to her friends—met Evan at the door at 9:00 p.m., with renewed praises for the excerpt he'd read in class that day, a bottle of red wine in one hand, a bunch of condom packets in the other, and dressed for combat, in a filmy negligee, with a slit in the crotch. Evan had read her expressions correctly in class earlier in the day, so he arrived in jeans and sandals, bare-chested and sans underwear and socks. The steamy look the cougar bombshell had given him had told him to arrive stripped for action. The steamy sex scenes in her

Ravenscroft Mystery

novel made anything he'd written and read in class a block of ice.

Hey, that was good—good enough to try out in one of his creative writing exercises—Evan thought, as he followed the jiggling buttocks into the depths of her web. The hymen as a thick sheet of ice, and his hard cock an ice pick. Not that there would be any ice involved with this red-hot cougar.

Evan fucked her doggy style on the living room sofa, she hanging her watermelon tits over the arm of the sofa and waving her buttocks in the air, with Evan mounted on her hips and giving her his grade A deep thrusts. She worked her clit with her fingers and laughed as he pumped her. He fucked her over her dining room table when she'd gone for another bottle of wine and he'd been mesmerized by her puffy labia and puckered asshole as she swung her hips, strutting away from him. He'd fucked a girl in the ass before—when they'd been scared of pregnancy, even with a rubber, and would only take it that way—but this was the first time he'd nailed a woman both ways in one load drop.

She took it like a champ and thrust back on it as hard as he thrust forward. He decided he could get used to women of forty.

He fucked her missionary style at the foot of her bed after she'd given him the best blow job he'd ever had to that point. (He was always optimistic about the future.) And then, when he was exhausted, and lying on his back on the bed, moaning and declaring he had no more to give, Lena proved him wrong. She mounted his loins and fucked him cowboy style until she had drained his nuts achingly dry of cum. Drained him as dry as Tanya had, but more slowly, sensuously, with melting variation and multiple positions.

Yep, there was a lot to be said about fucking—or, rather, being fucked by—an older woman of experience. Didn't Benjamin Franklin have something to say along those lines?

But he was letting his mind wander. He lay, spent on the bed, on his belly, his head lolled over the side, as he watched Lena disappear into the bathroom. There must be five spent condoms scattered around on the floor of this woman's house, he thought, as he dropped another one beside the bed in her bedroom. He wondered if she had some sort of trophy board for them.

Lena was the educator extraordinaire to Evan's mind. Of course he was going on the England book-signing tour with her.

* * * *

"You're awake."

"Yes," Lena answered. The curtains were billowing at her open bedroom window, the puffs of wind a harbinger of the storm moving in. A street lamp brought enough light into the room to give a vintage black-and-white film atmosphere to the chamber and taking a good fifteen years off the aspect of the professor's body.

Evan glided his hands over the voluptuous curves of the auburn-haired siren. And into the deep crevices. The hair of her trimmed V was redder than the hair cascading in loose curls on her head. He decided he liked meat on his women more than the boniness most college women strove for.

Ann Marie had been slim—almost boyish in the slimness of her hips and waist, giving him an added little thrill of splitting the difference between the bony pelvic bones with a thick cock, the "almost" of her breasts. He was able to count her ribs in the grasp of his hands while he lifted and lowered her on his cock, her docile at the end, the deed as far as her cherry was concerned done, letting him do as he wanted with her—with the empty hope they would be going steady in a month. If anything, worshipping him more after he'd fucked her than before. She had given him her virginity, hadn't she? Wasn't that the same as an engagement?

His dick had been fine with skinny women, as long as their cunts could take him, but curves and crevices like these of Lena were more sensual, more arousing. He cupped her muff with a hand, using his middle finger to find and rub her clit and then slide into her cunt. He grasped the pelvic bone hard, and she began to move on his buried finger.

His mouth went to her ear. A kiss, evoking a moan from her, and then the whisper. "Was what I wrote . . . what I read in class today . . . good? Really?"

A low laugh and then, "I'll give you an A for the preparation—for your young, hard body; for the time you spend in the gym; for your divine beauty; for the thickness and length and hardness of your shaft; for the virility that makes you hard without going completely soft—again and again and again. For what you knew and had experienced when you wrote that. If you fuck me again now I'll give you an A+. Other hole, please. You've worn my pussy out."

Not fucking likely, Evan thought. But, always up for a good grade to balance some in his math classes, he rose up over her body, stretching the length of her; stiff armed his fists in the mattress beside her shoulders; hovered over her body, his in a straight line; slid his cock inside her puckered ass; and, as Lena squirmed and egged him on, got a start on his morning exercises in push-up fucking. Multipurposing, with one obviously satisfied customer.

A lightning strike beyond the window kept cadence with every third thrust. The storm was upon them, becoming part of their coupling.

* * * *

Maybe it was because she was a challenge, but even though Evan didn't have any trouble finding honeys to line up on the ground, butts in the air, and go done the line fucking them for miles, Evan lusted after a freshman, Suzie. She wasn't like most of the other girls—auburn-haired, with just a few blond highlights, and curvy, where most of the rest who didn't just let themselves go tried to be blonde sticks. Evan had actually done his training in his freshman year doing the older women students who had given up on their looks and shapes, bemoaning the possibility that they'd be thrown out into the work world still virgins. They were easy, good, and grateful fucks. But it required doing a lot of night work—in the dark. At least at the beginning, though, one cunt, once the dick was inside it, was pretty much as good as the next one.

But, as he'd gained experience and got into the competition of it later in his freshman year, looks and status counted, and he'd gone to the blonde sticks.

He was in a new phase now, maybe having been initiated by his sexy, voluptuous creative writing professor, Lena, who was fiery and sensual and who wrote those dirty books everyone thought were literary masterpieces. For the first month he'd dreamed of doing to her what she had done to her heroines in her books. He had assumed she probably was just a frustrated woman who wasn't getting it or had some limp-dicked older philosophy professor by the played-out balls and was showing her frustration in how she dressed and what she wrote.

Wrong. Lena Whitlam fucked him in wild abandon ways never covered in her steamy novels.

And that was great, but he craved variety and looked to side dishes of younger cunt too. After Lena, though, the blonde sticks didn't make his cock jump. Suzie, the freshman, termed the Ice Princess by many, made his cock jump, and evoked visions of his ice pick breaking through her wall of ice. In some ways there was a connection between the reaction of Evan's cock to Professor Whitlam and Suzie. They seemed like two generations of the same person, both beautiful, voluptuous, and auburn haired. This made him fantasize that Suzie would be as passionate a lover as Lena was.

Suzie initially never looked directly at him, which he couldn't take personally, as she never seemed to look directly at any guy on campus as she walked between classes. Evan didn't know where she went at night, and increasingly he wanted to go there too, holding her close to him in the dark, possessing her cunt with his dick, pumping her hard. listening and feeling for her cherry to pop. Somehow he was sure she still was a virgin. But she seemed to be walking in her own force field, not coming close enough to any man for him to touch her.

There

was

one advantage for Evan, though, which he used shamelessly as an ice pick into her frozen barrier. Evan was the standout on the men's varsity lacrosse team. Suzie was on the freshman woman's lacrosse team. The freshman had to watch every one of the men's practices and home games for pointers. The freshmen women's coach even paired his girls up with team members of the men's varsity for one-on-one coaching. Suzie was paired with Evan.

All he had wanted was an opening that made Suzie look at him, just the hint of a thaw.

Two weeks later, they were on the tartan picnic blanket under an apple tree in the orchard next to the river. Suzie was sitting in his lap, facing him, naked. Her creamy torso and her head were arched back, away from him, her palms stiff-armed into the blanket on either side of his ankles. Evan, also naked, the bulb of his cock being clutched inside the folds of Suzie's cunt, throbbing at her gate. His hands grasping her waist, he was leaning over into her, his mouth sucking on the nipples of her cantaloupe-plump tits.